Come and Play
by Crowns and Skulls
Summary: What's going on in Moriarty's mind during the rooftop scene. The end refers to a theory that you can read out there on the internet. I'm not going to tell you what it is though... The original scene and the characters belong to Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat and BBC.


Come and play.  
Bart's Hospital rooftop.

-SH

Jim's heart skipped a beat. That was it, the problem that he was waiting for, the final problem. His hands started shaking in excitement. He had never been so distracted in his entire life.

By the time he got on the rooftop, his body had managed to get back to a normal state. No shaking, no sweating, no fast heartbeat. He waited a few minutes before texting Sherlock. He had to calm down completely. Sherlock must never see his weakness, the real one. He told him once that his changeability was his only weakness. He lied, of course. There was another one. One that he didn't have before.

_I hate Sherlock Holmes._

That was the only way, the only thing that could calm him down. Because the opposite was driving him crazy. He was so miserable.

He grabbed his phone, typed a few words, and waited. He didn't have to wait a long time. There he was. Sherlock Holmes.

'Ah. Here we are at last…'

What he liked to call his dark side managed to do all the talking. He didn't have to think. It was all planned, already written somewhere in a corner of his head. He walked around the great detective, in circles, so he couldn't get away. This time, there will be no escape for Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock tapped his fingers. Those lovely, long fingers. Jim hid a smile. He listened carefully to Sherlock as he explained the drumming. He didn't fall for it, did he?

'I can kill Rich Brook and bring back Jim Moriarty.'

He did. Boring old Sherlock. Couldn't possibly think about something rational, simple. It was exactly what Jim planned. It was so easy.

Jim felt anger growing inside him. Real anger. Like every time he noticed something ordinary, boring about Sherlock. He was so… dumb. When did he become so dumb? What happened to the clever boy, the Sherlock who could match Moriarty?

This had to end.

'Just kill yourself'

_Go on, disappear, and make it go away._

Then he felt it. Sherlock's hands on his coat, holding him above the void. That was how it felt every time Sherlock was playing with him. But this time it wasn't just a feeling, it was for real.

Sherlock pushed him a bit more over the edge. Jim grabbed one of the detective's arms. It was the first time he touched him. There were still clothes between their skins though. Jim wanted to rip them off.

Sherlock released him. Jim was very close to him, trapped between the edge and the detective. Their faces were just a few inches away. He looked deep into Sherlock's eyes. He'd never been so close to him. He could smell him; he could see every bit of his gorgeous face. He wondered how Sherlock felt at this moment…

Jim shook his head. Not now. Back to business.

He knew he would do it, beat Sherlock Holmes. He was just a few seconds away from victory. It couldn't end like that, could it? It couldn't be so easy.

'One moment of privacy, please.'

He really was so boring then.

Or was he?

'What did I miss?!'

Jim frowned. He rethought his whole plan, every bit of it. He had everything in control. What was wrong?

'"You're not going to do it." So the killers can be called off, then there's a recall code or a word or a number. I don't have to die...

… if I've got you!'

_Oh._

Jim felt a tingling sensation in his stomach. He giggled. Sherlock never talked like that. He never said anything like that, and not the way he did it, not with such a singing voice. And those words were for him, Jim Moriarty.

He really got him.

'You think you can make me stop the order?'

That was never going to happen. Jim couldn't lose so easily. Now that he was so close, he was not going to fall into sentiments.

'Yes. So do you.'

Of course. Oh, he wished Sherlock would try to make him stop the order… what could Sherlock do to him…

'I am you.'

Yes he was. That was exactly why Jim got interested in him. He never met someone as clever as him before. He had to play. But he wasn't as good as him. He was boring. He was on the side of the angels.

'But don't think for one second that I am one of them.'

For the first time in his life, Jim stopped thinking for a split second. He just stared at Sherlock. There was something wrong. He felt it. He looked into Sherlock's eyes, as if to find the mistake, the clue that he'd missed.

And he found it. In his eyes.

Sherlock Holmes wasn't ordinary. He was more than that.

'You're me.'

He was him. The real him. The one without the weakness…

Jim laughed nervously. There were tears in his eyes. He thanked the detective, he didn't really know why, but he felt like he had to. _Thank you. _

All he wanted to do was to take this damn coat off, to feel the man's skin against his. He offered his hand.

_Sherlock Holmes. _

When their hands touched, Jim shivered. He felt accomplished.

_Bless you._

Jim wanted to scream at his own voice, to destroy it. He wanted to hear Sherlock. But he couldn't. He knew what he had to do, and the detective couldn't do a thing about it. Sherlock had nothing to say.

He pulled the man close to him, pulled out his gun, and looked at Sherlock's eyes before shooting himself.

That was the only escape from the real pain.

Because as he looked into those eyes, he saw one detail, one single thing that proved two, and made him realise how better than him Sherlock Holmes was.

His pupils were not dilated.


End file.
